Page 2 of Hearts of Locke Hill

After paying the smiling matron, Florrie opened her parasol, Violet scooped up her basket of women’s suffrage posies, and they linked arms.

As they turned to seek out the rest of their group, Violet found the intense stare of Cyril Burke, who stood near the lemonade stand with Oscar and their younger sister, Ruby.

As if caught, Cyril turned abruptly and sipped his lemonade, muttering something to his siblings, who laughed in turn.

Violet’s eyes narrowed. So much for quieting her mind. She took some comfort in the idea that perhaps he had been as unsettled by their interaction as she’d been.

She and Cyril had known each other most of their lives, having mothers with similar creative interests and goals for their brilliant children. They’d been thrown together for nursery play, garden parties, music lessons, dance lessons, and etiquette lessons and had shared some of the same tutors—though, nobody but their mothers and the Wendy League knew of that last one. With this history between them, one might think that Violet and Cyril might be friends. Such was not the case. At least, they weren’t friends in the traditional sense. If sworn enemies could be friends, then that’s what they had been. He in her world, she inhis, forever feeling as if war might erupt between them if a wrong word was said.

It didn’t help that Violet hadn’t been afraid of testing that brink of war any chance she found, and Cyril had held his own, able either to settle her ire or put Violet in her place with aggravatingly few words. But they were older now, and while nothing had ever been broached between them, they lived in a sort of truce. After all, they no longer needed dancing lessons, Cyril had long ago given up the violin, and no one ever suggested they remove themselves to the nursery.

So, her earlier impetuous move to pin a suffrage posy on his lapel, complete with “votes for women” ribbons, should not have left her a bit shaky when she stepped away. Nor should it have earned the look of disapproval he again threw her way as she and Florrie approached.

“Our Queens have returned,” Oscar said with a bow.

“You both look lovely,” Ruby said, taking their hands. “Like you’ve emerged from an enchanted forest.”

Cyril tipped his head, his eyes on the ground, either in agreement or skepticism.

What a strange phenomenon growing up was. Violet was twenty-four to Cyril’s twenty-eight. She knew little of his current life, except for what his sister, Ruby—also Violet’s dear friend—shared on occasion. Violet and Cyril were both full adults and yet were still tethered to their homes, their families, and whatever the changing world made of their futures.

And they were still, apparently, enemies of a sort.

At least Cyril, as a man, was entitled to some power over his prospects. Often, Violet felt she was navigating a gauntlet set against her dreams. And not just because she was a woman. Or perhaps wholly because she was.

“Are you still with us, Violet?”

Violet blinked at the question and smiled at Ruby, who held out a short glass of lemonade for her. She accepted it, the icy condensation of the glass penetrating her thin gloves. “Thank you.” The cold, tart sweetness was welcome as the sun warmed her white frock.

Ruby tipped her head, her dark walnut curls and deep olive-green eyes so like her brothers’. “We were just wondering where Lydia and Spencer had disappeared to.”

Florrie beamed with news. “They must’ve had it planned. Just as we’d begun assembling our crowns, who do you thinkdroveby in a Singer Tourer, with her older brother Andrew sitting beside her looking as terrified as a schoolboy?”

“Queen Alexandra,” Oscar guessed with a grin.

Florrie dropped her shoulders. “No, you cheeky puppy. It was Lydia. Our Lydia. Spencer must’ve led her to Andrew and the motorcar. And she’s finally learning to operate it. Oh, I’m just thrilled for her.”

Ruby grinned. “I’m thrilled for all of them.”

Lydia Wooding was the fourth member of the young ladies’ close friendship, and founder of the Wendy League—a club they had been holding weekly since attending a performance of J.M. Barry’sPeter Panyears ago as girls. The League meant everything to them, and the foursome were as close as sisters ever could be. But just these past few weeks, Lydia and Spencer Hayes had found themselves in love—despiteher brother Andrew’s objections andwitha little help from the Wendy League. Lydia was obsessed with motorcars and, from the looks of it, would now know how to drive one. They all agreed that Lydia deserved every freedom and every happiness.

Violet felt a nudge. “Where didyougo just now?” Ruby asked.

“Oh.” Violet shook her head. “It’s on days like this that I wish to slow time.” She glanced at the festivities surrounding her and sighed. “Or go back in it.”

Cyril’s gaze was suddenly upon her, his green eyes beneath dark brows as penetrating as ever. She was reminded of when she was five or six and had noted for the first time that her lessons companion, this boy Cyril, also had green eyes—though, his were like dark moss and hers were like the frothing sea.

“Why would you want to do that?” he asked. “Go back in time, that is.”

“I—” Her usual easy flow of quips and observations floundered unexpectedly. Why would she want to do that? She squared her shoulders, meeting his rare gaze. “I suppose I should like to redo some things. Or prevent some things. Or even …” The sudden recollection entered her thoughts, of the first time he’d placed his hand beneath her shoulder blade and then held her other hand in his as she stared at his necktie, their dance instructor rattling off tips about three-quarter timing and proper distance.

Violet turned her head to the crowds. “Who wouldn’t want a chance to go back, if only for a moment? Mr. H.G. Wells wrote a splendid novel about the whole idea, and it hasn’t exactly floundered amongst literary standouts.” She looked back at him, challenge clearing her thoughts. “Heaven knows I wouldn’t mind besting you at ringtaw again.” She lifted a brow.

“Oh, do tell,” Florrie said, eyes alight. The others, Violet realized, had become silent observers of the exchange. Leave it to Florrie to break with that nonsense.

“Yes,” Cyril said, setting his empty lemonade glass on the nearby table and folding his arms. “Do tell.”

“Don’t you remember? After you knocked my favorite out of the ring, I took your prized marble in a cunning and brilliant move, and you refused to play me ever again.”